


Time For Scars

by cre8iveovadose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Bullying, Cutting, Doctor John Watson, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Medical Procedures, POV Sherlock Holmes, Self-Harm, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock-centric, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cre8iveovadose/pseuds/cre8iveovadose
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has known the feel of a blade against his wrist more intimately than any other sensation. Time and again he has added scars to his body to drown out the noise of the world. But there is a time for fresh wounds and time for scars and one day he will find out how that feels.





	Time For Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to write about Sherlock self-harming since “The Lying Detective” aired. I started writing this in March 2018 and randomly came across it when clearing up some files. I’d been thinking of writing a fic with similar themes so I’ve jammed them together. Enjoy, and let me know what you think :)

_**TIME FOR SCARS** _

The first time Sherlock Holmes stole something, that didn’t belong to his older brother, he was fourteen years old. His Year 8 science class were studying anatomy and a selection of frogs had been brought to the classroom for them all to dissect.

This was of course intensely boring for Sherlock who had dissected his first frog at age nine. His father had been horrified at the mess on his allocated play table but Mycroft understood. Mycroft knew Sherlock had seen his science textbooks.

“He’s just imitating me, Father. Nothing to worry about.”

But Sherlock noticed when all the kitchen knives were put on higher shelves after that, and the way Mummy cast worried glances his way after tucking him in at night.

So it was that Sherlock, while his classmates hacked into their specimens, carefully carved up a frog with a scalpel yet again. There was nothing he hadn’t seen before. The same old amphibious blood and guts. And the same old marks on Jacob Hallam’s jumper that meant he’d been pushed in the dirt on his walk to school again. And the same old shivers distracting Annabelle Logue because she hadn’t eaten for three days straight now.

As he inspected the frog’s lungs once more, Sherlock felt a ball of paper smack into the back of his head. He fumbled the scalpel and winced as it clattered onto the floor.

“Careful with the scalpels, everyone,” Mr Hardcastle said from the front of the classroom.

Sherlock crouched down to retrieve the blade. When he stood up again, he didn’t miss the glares sent his way by Tom Burnley and Rich Heywood.

Tom shook his head. “Why don’t you just top yourself, freak?”

Sherlock set his jaw and sat down again, keeping his eyes fixed on the blackboard. They said that to him at least once a week. The first time, he’d had to ask Mycroft what it meant.

“It’s vulgar colloquial language for committing suicide. So please refrain from listening to them.” Mycroft cleared his throat but it sounded more like he was choking on his words. “For Mummy’s sake, of course.”

What would happen if he did listen to them? Would they be punished for their words if he died? Sherlock thought not.

Mr Hardcastle cleared his throat and addressed the class. “Everyone, we have ten minutes of class time left. If you could please start to clean up and bring the scalpels to the front so I can lock them away. Remember to put the guards on and I will be counting to make sure we have the same number we started with. Twenty-seven is the magic number and no one is leaving this classroom until we reach it.”

Sherlock barely suppressed his snort of derision. There were twenty-eight in the box the teacher had brought around at the start of class. So much for his magic number.

As Sherlock cleaned everything up, he found his eyes kept tracking back to the shining silver scalpel. He wondered how it would feel to slice through his own skin with it. He’d contemplated self-harm before, ever since he saw Graham Steele’s scars by accident in the changing rooms. There was something appealing about drawing his own blood out. About causing himself pain.

And it would certainly distract him from the mundanity of everyday life. Not to mention the scientific exploration he’d be able to carry out.

He slipped the protective guard over the blade and put the scalpel in the pocket of his blazer. Mr Hardcastle wouldn’t miss it.

Sherlock kept it in his pocket all day, unsure he’d be able to transfer it into his schoolbag without someone noticing. His sleight of hand was not at the same standards as Mycroft’s. Yet. But the weight of the scalpel was comforting. He had something to look forward to for the first time in years. Since Redbeard had died.

The house was empty when he returned after school. His parents were in Edinburgh at some line dancing event. Mycroft had come back from university for the week to mind Sherlock but he was at a class until five thirty. There was plenty of time for Sherlock to do the necessary research before he carried out his first experiment.

His brother’s room was still full of books on every possible subject. Sherlock had memorised his brother’s system of organisation years ago when he’d needed to sneak in while Mycroft studied. He knew exactly where to go to find an anatomy book that would contain the vascular diagrams he needed.

He spent most of the afternoon pouring over the book, analysing his own arm and trying to map out the system of veins, nerves and arteries he would need to be aware of to avoid inflicting serious damage. He wondered if a scalpel was the safest option to start his experiments with. But he wasn’t prepared to change his course of action when he was so close to carrying it out.

When the downstairs clock struck five, Sherlock returned Mycroft’s book to its place on the shelves before he settled himself in his room. He sat on the floor by the wall with the scalpel and a bandage from the bathroom first aid kit beside him. He looked at his arm, tracing the blue-green shadows of veins beneath his pale skin. He would only get paler if he went through with this. His arm would take at least a month to heal back to a state where the scars wouldn’t be visible. It was lucky he lived in England and not on the California coast.

Sherlock glanced to the clock on his bedside table once more. He needed to finish this experiment before Mycroft got back. He could do this.

He took up the scalpel. He plucked off the guard and tossed it aside. As it clattered on the floorboards, Sherlock looked down at his arm and put the scalpel to his wrist. Without applying much pressure at all, he drew it over his skin. The fibres parted and red bubbled up. Not too fast but faster than he’d expected. It began to hurt, to sting, to throb. The blood pooled then trickled down his arm to drop onto the leg of his trousers.

Sherlock let the pain roll through him. He let it engulf his senses as he stared up at the ceiling. He felt cleaner. He felt saner. He felt safer.

He took his time drawing more cuts across his wrist. The lightest of pressure brought the blood and the pain. It was all he needed.

With the blade against his skin again, he took a steadying breath as he prepared to cut once more. As he willed his hand to move the scalpel, the front door slammed downstairs. His fingers jerked and the scalpel cut deeper. And everything turned to red.

Sherlock swore under his breath as he dropped the scalpel and clamped his fingers over the cut. Blood seeped out around his fingers, coming much too fast for his liking, but it was still the dark red of deoxygenated blood. His arteries were intact.

As he glanced around for something to mop up the blood, he heard Mycroft’s feet on the stairs. Sherlock’s heart pounded against his ribcage as he tried to come up with an explanation for the blood. But he was starting to feel faint and the pain was making him dizzy. He looked up at his desk chair where he’d laid his blazer. Mummy wouldn’t be happy with him for ruining it but its burgundy fabric would hide the blood if Mycroft came in.

Stretching out his leg, Sherlock tried to drag the chair towards him but it snagged on the rug and tipped over. The blazer was out of reach.

“Sherlock, what are you destroying now?” Mycroft yelled from down the hall.

He opened his mouth to shout back but he couldn’t find the energy. He couldn’t reach the blazer to hide what he’d done. He couldn’t unstick his fingers from where they tried to stem the blood.

Mycroft’s footsteps drew closer before he pushed the door open. His expression of disdain at having to babysit his younger brother evaporated the instant he saw the blood pouring out of Sherlock’s arm. He rushed forwards, grabbing a shirt off the bed and wrapped the sleeve tight around Sherlock’s upper arm in a makeshift tourniquet.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” He asked, his calmness betrayed by the frenetic movement of his eyes.

“Miscalculated the pressure necessary to draw blood. I didn’t mean to sever the major vein.” He looked up at his brother through half-closed eyes. “You startled me.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t sever the arteries. You weren’t-” Mycroft’s voice faltered. “You weren’t trying to - kill yourself, were you?”

Sherlock shook his head as he leaned back against the wall. “Just an experiment. Wanted to see…”

“Wanted to see what? Wanted to see what, Sherlock?”

He took a deep breath, fighting through the fog he hadn’t expected would cloak his mind. “What it felt like.”

Mycroft sighed, a heavy ragged sound. “So you weren’t - you weren’t trying to see how your muscles worked?”

Sherlock frowned, his eyes still closed. “Why would I do that?”

“No reason. Don’t worry about it. But Sherlock, we need to go to hospital. This bleeding isn’t stopping.”

“Don’t like hospitals.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Mycroft bound his arm and carried him downstairs. He put him in the car and they raced to accident and emergency where Sherlock was stitched back together and left to rest. Their parents were called and a psychiatric consultation was ordered. But Mycroft sensed the importance of this event couldn’t be pinned down to an imbalance of chemicals or struggles at school. Not if he knew his younger brother. Only time would tell.

 

* * *

 

It took Sherlock a long time to return to a blade. At high school, he discovered illegal pharmaceuticals were much more fun. He let a habit take hold, not bothered that it interfered with his schoolwork or terrified his parents. Mycroft was working in the government now and Sherlock knew he was being watched. He didn’t care.

But in the gap between scraping through his A levels and starting university, he ran out of drugs.

Curled up in bed, detoxing for the first time in years, he didn’t know how to make his brain stop. Every car that rattled past outside, every bird that twittered in the trees, filled his head with information he didn’t want to process.

“Make it stop,” he groaned into his pillow as he shivered through sweat.

He’d already searched his room three times for dregs but either he’d truly used it all up or Mycroft had brought in a colleague of his to clear him out.

But there was still a razor blade taped to the underside of his desk drawer.

With quaking limbs, Sherlock crawled out of bed and across the floor of his room. He opened the drawer and pulled the blade out of its hiding place. Slumped against the wall, he ignored the fact that he was in the exact same position he’d been in when he cut himself for the first time four years ago. The raised scar on his arm was reminder enough.

His fingers shook but when he pressed the blade to his skin, they stilled. Maybe some part of his brain was trying to avoid what happened last time. He didn’t jerk as he dragged the blade across his wrist. Blood bloomed and pain cut through the mess in his brain and brought him quiet for the first time in weeks.

And that was the start of his second addiction. If the drugs ever ran out again, he could always get a hold of a blade. It wasn’t the same but it got him through the day. Even if it was harder to hide.

Hiding the act never took much effort. He had a dormitory to himself so could sit down with a blade whenever he pleased. He could even cut in the university bathrooms between classes if he was feeling particularly on edge. No one was close enough to him to care or even notice. There was anonymity in academia and Sherlock thrived on it.

There was only one instance when someone suspected his subterfuge. In his Chemistry lab - the one place he was forced to interact with others.

Libby Spring was his lab partner, a plain girl who he was sure would never achieve the scientific discoveries she aspired to, but was one of the few people who tolerated him. On this particular day, he could sense her scrutinising eyes on him as he mixed chemicals.

“If you’re confused, read the instructions again,” he said as he pulled a tray of test tubes towards him. The wounds in his arm throbbed with the effort and he felt his fingers twitch. He needed to stop cutting the inside of his wrist; it was damaging the nerves in his hand too much.

“I’m not confused by the experiment,” Libby said. “I’m confused by you.”

He shot her a sardonic smile. “Don’t worry, most people are.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m well aware that you’re a pompous ass know-it-all. I’m confused as to why you never wear short sleeves.”

“That’s because I’m wearing a lab coat. As is everyone else in this room.”

“Even when I see you around the campus,” she continued. “Middle of winter, middle of summer, always long sleeves. Jumpers, coats, shirts. What are you hiding?”

“My arms, evidently.” He focused on stirring the mixture they had over the bunsen burner.

“Why?” Libby had lowered her voice and leaned in closer. Sherlock couldn’t decide if it was out of interest or an attempt at providing privacy. He didn’t care.

“Because I’m cold. Hand me the next compound now, please.”

Libby did as he asked but she pressed on. “I know that uni can be hard for a lot of people. I mean, everyone knows about your mum’s accomplishments and that your brother’s some hotshot in the government. That’s a lot of pressure to live up to. And there are rumours about you.”

“There have always been rumours about me. Am I a spook from eastern Europe this time or just MI-5’s latest attempt at creating android technology?”

She snorted. “You’re far too emotional to be an android.” She didn’t notice the flicker of surprise on his features at the comment. “People who say they went to school with you. They’ve mentioned at parties that you used to do a lot of drugs. I wondered if that was still an issue for you.”

“Forty per cent of university students in the UK use drugs regularly so I’d say it’s more of an issue for the health department than for me.”

“There’s something, Sherlock,” she said. “I know there is. And - if you decide to be honest about it - you should feel free to talk to me. If you want.”

He glanced over at her, searching for the mocking or judgement he so often saw reflected back at him, but it wasn’t there. He nodded once and they went back to the experiment without another word.

Sherlock had no intentions of telling anyone about his new habit. Or his old one. The only thing he intended to do was study. That was all he was here for. The fact that his parents had forced him to live on campus was an ever-present gripe in the back of his mind.

Weeks passed and things with Libby remained much the same. Though she did ask him more questions about his class load and she complained a lot about her Mathematics professor. On Friday afternoons, she started inviting him out with her and her friends but he always found a way to decline.

It wasn’t until the day of the fire that anything drastically changed.

He’d been to his Physics lecture that morning and had an hour to kill before Chemistry. He’d secured more cocaine and hadn’t eaten in days so while his classmates dispersed for lunch or ran to make their next class, Sherlock slipped into the bathroom on the top floor of the science building. He shut himself in a stall and pulled his button-down shirt over his head. The bandage around his arm was wound too tight and when he removed it, his skin itched. He rubbed a hand over it, smoothing out the hairs before he turned his arm over to pull off the dressing he’d pressed over the cuts he’d made that morning.

Cutting never felt as effective when he’d taken drugs recently but he knew he couldn’t be high around Libby. She watched him too closely. So he pulled the razor blade out of a pocket in his bag and pressed it into his skin.

The sting moved through him and he sighed, leaning back against the tiled wall. He held his arm over the toilet and watched the blood drip into the bowl. When he’d first come to university, he had considered using it as an excuse to never cut again. But here he was in the bathroom with a bandage and a blade ready to repeat the cycle that had defined his life for four years now.

Sherlock cut again and again. When the rush began to fade, he wiped the blade clean with some toilet paper and pushed the blade back into its hiding place. He reached for the dressing where he’d balanced it on the paper dispenser when a loud siren blared overhead.

The fire alarm.

His heart skipped a beat and then it was racing. He discarded the dressing, instead just wrapping the bandage tightly around his arm. It would hurt to take off later but, on the off-chance this wasn’t some fresher’s prank, it would hurt a lot less than being burned alive. He tugged his shirt back on, flushed the loo, and with his bag over his shoulder and his arm pressed against his stomach, he raced out of the bathroom.

Security guards were directing everyone down the stairs and Sherlock joined the throngs of people hurrying down the steps. A girl with thick glasses and a limp was struggling - obviously from lack of depth perception given the unevenness of the makeup on the left side of her face. He stepped behind her and took his time so that people wouldn’t jostle her and knock her off-balance. But people shoved him into the wall and the handrail and the cuts screamed in pain every time.

Outside, a thick crowd had gathered to watch as a fire crew arrived. Sherlock heard mutters about gas leaks and chemical fires but there was no telling what was true when it came out of the mouths of uni students. He wandered over to a row of benches and sat down, keenly aware that his arm was still pressed to his side and feeling unusually warm.

“Sherlock?”

He looked up to see Libby’s face contorted with concern. “What has you worried now?”

She opened her mouth but didn’t speak. She pointed to his stomach.

Looking down, Sherlock saw that his sleeve and the front of his shirt was stained with blood. Obviously, the bandage had not been enough to stem the blood flow - especially not once he started racing downstairs.

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmured. “I’d been hiding it so well, too.”

“You need to go to the hospital!” Libby spluttered. “Or was it because of the fire? Were you there? What happened?”

Sherlock stood and grabbed Libby’s arm, dragging her away. “It wasn’t the fire, it was just me.”

“Just you? What do you mean?”

He’d led them around the corner to a secluded courtyard. Libby’s eyes were on his bloodied sleeve and her lip trembled as she watched him.

“All you need to know is that I’m fine,” Sherlock said.

“But you’re bleeding. And what did you mean that it was you?” She searched his face. “Did you do this to yourself?”

There was no point in lying. He nodded.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Right now, I need to get back to my room without anyone noticing.”

Libby nodded. “Come on, I know a shortcut.”

He followed her across campus to the dormitories. He held his bag over his arm so that no one would see the bloodstains. He couldn’t tell if the bleeding had stopped but he didn’t understand why it had lasted so long either. Maybe he needed to take more Biology courses.

In his room, he tossed his bag onto his bed before crossing to the wardrobe to find a new shirt and new dressings. Libby lingered in the entryway but when he removed his shirt, she shut the door.

“Do you want me to stay?” She asked.

“Are you going to appeal to my sense of self-preservation and suggest I seek help? Because I don’t have one.”

“One what?”

“A sense of self-preservation.” He turned away from her to undo the sodden bandage. The cuts still wept but they were closing up. He dressed and bound them and pulled on the clean shirt before he faced Libby again.

Tears stained her cheeks and she shook her head. “How can you do that to yourself?”

“Quite easily. You see, all you have to do is find something sharp and-”

“Stop, Sherlock!” She scrunched up her face and shook her head before she looked at him. “You’re easily the most intelligent person in this university. How can you think cutting yourself is a good idea?”

“What makes anything a good idea? It does physical damage, of course, but it alleviates the noise in my mind enough that I can concentrate - that I can be the most intelligent person in this university, as you put it. Blood is the price I pay for my brain. It’s less than other people have to.”

Libby looked up at him, her brown eyes wide. “You’ll destroy yourself.”

He let out a single laugh. “You say that as if it’s not already happening.”

“You need help, Sherlock. You have to stop.”

“My brother runs the United Kingdom. If he can’t get me to stop, you haven’t got a chance.”

She opened the door again and turned to leave but paused with one foot in the bedroom and another in the hallway. “I never believed it when people said you were arrogant. I always figured it was just a front you put up to keep people at bay. But if you’re so up yourself that you can’t even see how much you’re hurting yourself - let alone the people that care about you - then maybe they’re right. You’re a heartless, arrogant son of a bitch, Sherlock Holmes.”

The sound of the door slamming echoed in Sherlock’s head, ringing in his ears until it was slowly replaced by that too familiar feeling. The need to cut one more time.

 

* * *

 

By the time Sherlock met John, his arms were a mess of fading scars. He never wore short sleeves if he could avoid it. Whether he was cutting or not. The trick wasn’t wearing long sleeves when he’d relapsed. It was wearing long sleeves when he was clean. If no one ever saw his arms, they wouldn’t notice when he started hiding them again.

But he was out of practice when it came to sharing a house with someone and thereby from hiding at every hour of the day. He knew Mike Stamford had pushed the idea of a flatmate on him as a way of dissuading him from the self-harm - and the drugs - but he refused to give up his vices because of that. He just needed to be more careful.

As the months passed and their workload increased, Sherlock found less of a need to drown his sorrows in drugs or pain. His mind was quieter with John around to filter his thoughts and focus his energies. But the buzz in the back of his mind for certain kinds of stimulation never went away, no matter how thrilling or complicated the cases were.

It wasn’t until the Christmas holidays that the boredom set in again. Sherlock knew that crime didn’t cease at Christmas but a strict invitation to his parents’ home for the holiday meant he had no choice. Five days in the country with his parents and a sullen Mycroft would have been enough to drive anyone mental but these days there was something about the house that made Sherlock feel empty. Maybe it was the lack of stimulation or the fact that his bedroom floor still bore bloodstains. Whatever it was, he was glad to return to Baker Street.

John was staying with his sister until New Year’s Eve so for three days, Sherlock intended to indulge every darkness his mind provided him with. With a new supply of drugs and blades, he was free to do whatever he wanted until the good doctor returned.

He moved through the days like a ghost, letting his instincts guide his actions as he vacillated between drug-induced highs and the mellow buzz of self-harm.

The day before John was to return, Sherlock lay on the sofa in the living room with his arm held up before him, much as he had when they’d worked on the case John had called “A Study in Pink.” But instead of nicotine patches, his arm now bore cuts deep enough to calm him down. Whenever he’d drawn the blade across his skin, he’d gone deeper than he meant to. He’d already written a list for Mycroft should anything bad happen but if he nicked an artery, they wouldn’t need a list to figure out what was wrong. Hopefully.

Slowly, Sherlock sat up and shook out his hand. He got to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom where he’d stashed most of the blades. The sink was spattered with blood and the towel on the floor was marked with red. John had sent a text earlier saying that he’d be home in the morning so he would need to hide the evidence of his melancholy before then. But there were more pressing matters to attend to first.

Plucking a blade from the packet, Sherlock pulled up the sleeve of his dressing gown and surveyed his scarred arm again. Red, white, silver lines marked his skin. The thickest scar, from his very first cut, still stood in stark contrast to the rest. Though he could make out the ones from the day of the fire at university too. One day he was sure they’d be lost in the mess of another accident but it wasn’t to be this day.

Leaning over the sink, he began to cut. Deep lines that pulsed red into the white basin and down the silver drain. He wondered how many cuts it would take for him to pass out. To bleed out. He had never tried cutting vertically, the way self-professed self-harm bloggers claimed was the best way to kill yourself. He knew that it took hours upon hours to die like that and he wasn’t willing to perform that experiment at this particular moment. What about what Mycroft had said all those years ago? Would Sherlock be able to stomach the vivisection required to see how his muscles worked?

He pushed the thoughts away but saw that he had turned the blade around to cut down the length of his arm. The blade was against his skin. All he’d have to do was press down and pull.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Sherlock spun around, dropping the blade in the sink and holding his arm behind his back. John stood in the hallway, peering into the grubby bathroom. There was no way he could have missed the bloody towel on the floor and there was only a minute chance he couldn’t see the blood in the sink. Or smell it.

“I was just - I was - it was-”

John stepped forward, shaking his head at the state of the room before he glanced to the sink. “Is it an experiment making a mess over there or do you have something to tell me?”

Sherlock swallowed around the knot in his throat before he held his arm out to John. His eyelids flickered, the blood loss getting to him, and he heard the quiet _plink_ of droplets falling to the floor.

“Dear God,” John whispered. His doctor’s instincts took a moment to catch up before he grabbed the cleanest washcloth he could and wrapped it around Sherlock’s arm. He pressed down and Sherlock groaned, wavering on his feet.

“Can you make it back out to the living room?” John asked, his voice quiet. “Those are going to need stitches.”

“Please, no stitches,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “The - the tugging, I can’t stand it.” They started slowly out towards the living room.

“I might be able to glue some of them but those deep ones have to be stitched, Sherlock. They won’t heal on their own.”

“I thought time heals all wounds.”

“Why wait for time when you’ve got me on hand?”

John led Sherlock to the sofa where he lay down again. John brought over the medical bag he kept under his desk and dragged over one of the side tables. He laid down a protective sheet and rested Sherlock’s arm on it. As he set to work cleaning the wounds, he tried to figure out a way to find out what had happened. And why.

“You’re thinking so loud Mrs Hudson could hear it,” Sherlock said. His head rested on the arm of the sofa, his eyes shut against the world outside. “Ask your questions. Get it over with.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you cut yourself?”

“This time or the first time?”

“If you’re not going to answer, I’m not going to ask.” He took out a syringe and filled it with a local anaesthetic so that Sherlock wouldn’t feel the stitches.

Sherlock opened one eye to look at John before he shut it again. “It makes things quiet.”

“I thought you had other methods of achieving that.”

“None that are so effective.”

“When did it start?” John took up the sutures and began drawing Sherlock’s skin back together.

“I was fourteen. Boys at school - I was curious to see how it felt.”

“Must’ve felt good if you kept doing it for fifteen years.”

“Horrible, actually - the first time. I cut too deep and Mycroft found me.”

John paused. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise for my brother; you’re not responsible for his inconvenience.”

“I meant about you cutting too deep.”

Sherlock sighed. “It wasn’t that bad.”

They fell silent as John worked. He stitched what he had to and used wound glue for the others. He taped a dressing over Sherlock’s arm and wrapped a bandage around it to secure everything in place.

“I’ll take them out next week,” John murmured, packing his things away. “Promise you won’t tear them open again?”

“I don’t make promises,” Sherlock said, sitting up. “But I won’t. Far too much hassle.”

“There’s not much point in suggesting you get professional help, is there?” John asked.

“Decidedly not.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you’re too much of a gormless prick for that.”

They smiled at each other and as he watched John pack away the last of his things, Sherlock realised he had never been so grateful to be caught. This time, it had been worth it.

 

* * *

 

The years went on and scars began to fade. New ones popped up every now and then but not at the rate they had before John. Even after Moriarty forced him into hiding and the discovery of Eurus nearly drove him mad, Sherlock only picked up the blade a handful of times. But, of course, when the ghosts of his madness came out to play, they coincided with a case he couldn’t turn down.

Sherlock didn’t know what had driven him to relapse this time. Too many grey days and a dip in his mood perhaps. Or just the strange mix of boredom and nostalgia that sometimes crept in on him. He had three thin lines on the inside of his wrist, expertly cleaned and bound with the medical supplies John still kept stashed at Baker Street.

They were sitting across from each other in their chairs when the doorbell rang. John had found it in the pantry that morning after Sherlock had taken it down the week before. They listened as Mrs Hudson answered the door before two sets of footsteps ascended the stairs.

A middle-aged couple walked in. The woman dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief while her husband wrung his hands.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” he nodded to each of them as he spoke. “I’m Eric Millican, this is my wife, Judy. We were hoping you might help us with something.”

“We’ll certainly try,” John said, getting up to fetch chairs for the both of them. “What seems to be the problem?”

“We know it’s probably not usually the type of thing you go after,” Mrs Millican said as she sat down. “But we don’t know what else to do. She won’t talk to us.”

“Who won’t?” Sherlock asked, fighting the urge to take out his phone.

“Our daughter, Sadie. She’s seventeen and last night she - she-” Mrs Millican dissolved into sobs.

“She tried to kill herself,” Mr Millican supplied. “And it seems she’s been hurting herself for - well, we don’t know how long. She won’t tell us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said. “Is she safe now?”

“Yes, she’s in hospital,” Mrs Millican said, wiping at her nose. “But you have to help us. We don’t understand. How could she have been hurting herself? How could she have hidden it from us for so long?”

“Perseverance?” Sherlock suggested, unable to keep the bite from his tone.

“It’s not uncommon for people who are self-harming to hide it from their loved ones,” John said, glancing to Sherlock. “And I’m afraid you’re right - this isn’t exactly our area.”

“Come on, now, John,” Sherlock said. “I’d say this is definitely one of our areas. People keeping secrets, blood and guts, a sort-of murder.”

“This isn’t a game, Sherlock.”

“But it is a mystery.” He cast a false smile at Mrs Millican. “We’ll be glad to help. Shall we go?”

Sherlock grabbed his coat and they went downstairs. In the street, he hailed a cab and the Millicans gave their address. When they arrived at their small townhouse, the Millicans went inside while John and Sherlock hung back on the pavement.

“What are you playing at, Sherlock?” John asked.

“They want to know how their daughter hid her self-harm and I’m going to tell them.”

“Don’t you think this is hitting a little too close to home for you?”

“I’ve never understood that expression,” he said before he strode up the steps and into the quiet little house.

Mr Millican led them upstairs, past the master bedroom and to the doorway of their daughter’s room. Weak sunlight flooded in through the window, illuminating the white furniture that decorated the room. Scientific diagrams were pinned up on the board above the desk. The mattress was missing from the bed.

“The mattress was completely ruined by all the blood,” Mr Millican said, his voice little more than a whisper. “We haven’t touched anything else.”

Sherlock stepped into the room and took out his magnifier. He glanced over the desk and the bookshelf, surprised to see so many scientific texts. He nudged the wastebasket with his foot before he inspected the nightstand.

“The doctor at the hospital believes she’s been cutting herself for years,” Mrs Millican said. “I don’t understand how we couldn’t have noticed.”

Sherlock snapped his magnifier shut and straightened up, glaring at the simpering woman as he strode towards her. “Yes, how could you have not noticed? She was barely even trying to hide it. No one with half a brain should have missed all the clues she’s left.”

“W-What clues?” Mrs Millican asked. “There weren’t any clues.”

“Oh, really? Allow me to enlighten you, then.”

“Sherlock,” John murmured. “Gently.”

“The box full of razor blades and bandages might have been a starting point,” Sherlock said, knocking a cheap wooden jewellery box off the desk. The contents spilt onto the floor, silver blades shining in the watery sunlight. “Hidden in plain sight.”

“We don’t go snooping through our daughter’s things,” Mr Millican said. “We trust her more than that.”

“Then I’m guessing you don’t even enter her room since there are blood stains on the lid.” Sherlock picked it up and tossed it to John who immediately saw the bloody thumbprint on the side. “Tell me, who cleans her room?”

“Sadie does it herself,” Mrs Millican said as she leaned against the doorframe. “She always has. Since she was a child.”

Sherlock nodded. “Which explains why no one noticed the dust. People never do, though. Her nightstand,” he pointed to it, “the lamp and the clock are covered in dust, as is the space around them, but the front half of the nightstand is wiped clean. Because this is where she does it.”

He flicked on the lamp and laid his arm on the nightstand. “Perfect for finding veins. The ambient heat from the lightbulb might even keep her skin warm enough to ensure the blood keeps running. She’s bold, cutting herself on a white surface, but I suppose she can afford to be bold when she has morons for parents.”

“Sherlock, stop it!” John snarled.

“How could you not have heard her?” Sherlock cried as he rounded on them again. “Your bedrooms share a wall. She had dressings to unwrap and wet wipes from packets to clean herself up with that would’ve sounded like bombs going off in the dead of night. Her floorboards squeaked under her weight and she cried while she was doing it.”

“How do you know?” Mr Millican asked. His voice had lost all bravado and he’d sunk against the doorframe like his wife.

“Not all the wet wipes in the bin are bloody. Some are clean, probably only used to wipe up tears.”

“That’s why she never let me take her rubbish out,” Mr Millican murmured. “Always had to do it herself. Wouldn’t let us do anything.”

“Why would she? The only thing parents are _meant_ to do is be there for their children, to notice when things go wrong,” Sherlock spat. “Some parents don’t get that chance but here you are squandering the opportunity. Your only daughter has been torturing herself right beside you and you didn’t even see it.”

“She’s not a child, we don’t follow her every move,” Mrs Millican yelled. “We thought she was studying! She was always studying.”

Sherlock was unmoved by their tears. He slipped between them and headed back down the stairs. “No child is always studying. Not even the studious ones. That should’ve been the first clue that something was wrong. That she was fabricating a need to be alone. Just so she could tear herself apart.”

He walked out of the house and crossed the street to the park fence. He felt spits of rain on his face, in his hair, before a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. John stood before him.

“I knew this would be too much,” John murmured. “The cases with children are hard enough - a case with a kid like you must be hell.”

“Sadie’s not like me,” Sherlock said, staring at the ground. “Nobody’s like me.”

“Can’t argue that one.”

“And her parents - their daughter almost dies and they act like they’re the victims? Spending time hiring a detective to figure out something they could’ve - _should’ve_ \- figured out ages ago instead of being with their daughter! What kind of parent does that? Finds out their child is hurting themselves and then continues to ignore them? Not even my parents were that thick.”

John inclined his head. “You’ve hurt yourself again, haven’t you?”

He slumped back against the fence. “Only once. It’s never like it used to be.”

“But maybe this wasn’t the best time to take on a case like this?”

Sherlock looked up at John, trying to find himself an excuse, but there was nothing. “Yes, maybe not.”

John shrugged one shoulder. “Sadie’s not going to suffer in silence anymore. The doctors at the hospital will help her. She won’t be stuck like this forever.”

“And what about me?” Sherlock asked, tugging at his sleeve. “Will I be stuck like this forever?”

John pursed his lips and shook his head. “Only if you want to be.”

“I don’t know what I want, John.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. Like we always do.”

Sherlock knew what it took for a person to destroy themselves, and to rebuild everything, over and over. All people bore self-inflicted scars, whether they were visible or not, and there was always a way to forgive them. He knew the longing for a blade against his arm would never go away but the want was fading now. One day it would be nothing but memory. For now, he had his work, the love of his best friend, and the knowledge that even the darkest monsters could find a way back to the light. All scars fade. They just needed time. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading to the end. It's been ages since I wrote Sherlock fanfiction and it felt so good to be back with the Baker St boys. I hope you enjoyed it - let me know if you did :) And thank you for reading! - Em


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